


Oasis

by amarielah



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: (though they don't actually stop being enemies), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Antagonism, Awkward Conversations, Bittersweet Ending, Blanket Fic, Decepticon Ideology, Emotional Constipation, Enemies to Lovers, Falling In Love, Huddling For Warmth, Identity Reveal, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Irreconcilable Differences, M/M, Pining, Sexual Repression, Sexual Tension, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Stranded, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2020-05-19 01:38:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19346929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarielah/pseuds/amarielah
Summary: A mission to track down Scorponok goes badly awry for the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord. Instead of arresting his intended target, he finds himself obliged to escort Megatron into Decepticon custody. Scorponok's treachery follows them, however, and they end up stranded on a desolate wasteland of a planet.Their only hope of rescue lies in working together.





	1. Minimus

**Author's Note:**

> A meeting place for all my favorite romantic tropes.
> 
> The point of divergence for this fic is a few thousand years before _Infiltration_. 
> 
> The rating doesn't apply until the second chapter.

It is a sometimes unfortunate reality that being the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord puts Ultra Magnus in a tricky legal position. He is officially aligned with the Autobots. When acting in his capacity as Enforcer, however, he is obliged to remain neutral, and can only arrest those in violation of the Accord. Which encompasses a fairly narrow set of offenses, agreed upon by both factions.

What this means, in practical terms, is that his missions as Enforcer preclude any arrests pertaining to violations of the  _Autobot_ code. To do so would throw the legitimacy of the Tyrest Accord itself into question. Likewise, when acting in the interests of the Autobot cause, he cannot make any arrests pertaining to violations of the Accord.

So when he follows the trail of a suspected offender as acting Enforcer, and inadvertently stumbles upon an entirely different kind of criminal, his path forward is always clear. As stipulated in the Accord:

> _Any Cybertronian found in association with a suspected offender shall be turned over to the custody of their faction's High Justice, whereupon a tribunal shall be afforded full discretion over determination of culpability, and any consequences thereto._

Whether the 'association' is voluntary or not is irrelevant; that is up to the tribunal to decide. Indeed, it doesn't even matter that the actual suspect - Scorponok - managed to escape. His 'associate' must still be turned over to the relevant faction.

Even if that 'associate' is, in actuality, Scoponok's prisoner.

And even if that prisoner is Megatron.

Perhaps  _especially_ if that prisoner is Megatron, considering that Megatron is a  _signee_ on the Tyrest Accord. Returning him to the Decepticons will be undeniable evidence that Ultra Magnus' Autobot affiliation doesn't interfere in his neutrality as Enforcer.

So yes, Minimus knows what needs to be done. But there's no law in place that obliges him to be  _happy_ about it.

"You let Scorponok get away," says Megatron, who has decided to make himself at home on the bridge. It had been very tempting to put him in one of the holding cells, just for Minimus' own safety. But it had never really been an option.

"Yes," says Minimus. "I'm currently writing a report on the nature of my failure. You may file a formal complaint with Judge Tyrest if you believe this is grounds for my dismissal. Your opinion will carry significant weight, as one of the principal signees of the Accord."

That seems to take the wind out of Megatron's sails. After a few kliks, he asks, "How long until we rendezvous with a Decepticon ship?"

"I've sent out a hail to all vessels within range, but have yet to receive confirmation." Minimus frowns as an alert pops up on the console. The hail has failed to transmit.

The viewscreen goes black for a nanoklik, and then the image of Scorponok appears.

"Hello, Megatron," says Scorponok, in what's clearly a pre-recorded message. "If you are seeing this, it's because you somehow managed to escape. Unfortunately for you, I infected you with a nanovirus that's set to activate automatically upon leaving the planet's orbit. It has hijacked your navigational systems, taking you to a destination of my choosing while feeding your console a stream of false data." The recording of Scorponok smirks. "It's such a pity that I can't be there in person to see the look on your face. You must be positively _overawed_.

"In any case, I do hope you enjoy your new accommodations. Think of it as a - vacation, if you will. I think we can all agree that you're long overdue for some rest and relaxation. Far away from the war."

* * *

The ensuing crash leaves the ship's engines completely inoperable. That is, in addition to Scorponok's virus wiping out its navigational systems. The comms are still functional, by all accounts, but none of their messages are being successfully delivered.

The planet is a wasteland, harboring no life whatsoever - organic or mechanical. It's not even  _geologically_ active, though its geography suggests that it had been at one point. The mountains created by past tectonic shifts have since been rendered smooth and featureless by eons of erosion.

The sand that surrounds them on all sides is a bleak, mostly uniform shade of burnt orange.

They are utterly stranded.

* * *

There's enough energon onboard to last two Cybertronians of Ultra Magnus' size two or three years, depending on rationing. Minimus knows that Megatron must have done these mental calculations, as well. And he knows that the warlord must be considering the option of killing Ultra Magnus as a means of conserving fuel. If it came down to a one-on-one fight, Minimus is quite certain that Megatron would win. And even on the off-chance that he didn't, Minimus would certainly be injured in the process.

There's only one solution that has a chance of not ending in violence.

With grim resignation, Minimus sheds both sets of outer armor.

* * *

"Well, that's one theory confirmed," says Megatron, when he comes onto the bridge to see Minimus beside the discarded armor.

"I am Minimus Ambus," says Minimus.

Megatron's gaze is razor sharp with calculation. "I suppose you think I'm less likely to kill you, now."

"If you kill me, you will only extend your own rations by a matter of months - and we're more likely to avoid that outcome altogether if we cooperate." Minimus squares his shoulders. "Letting me live is the most pragmatic course of action."

"Yes," says Megatron, thoughtfully. "Though I could still kill you once you've outlived your usefulness."

"Decepticons benefit from the Tyrest Accord," Minimus says. "Killing its Duly Appointed Enforcer during a neutral operation would call its validity into question."

Megatron smirks. "And yet, nobody will blink an optic at a Duly Appointed Enforcer who died in a crash that resulted from his own incompetence."

Minimus privately concedes the point. If he had succeeded in capturing Scorponok, the mad scientist would've probably deactivated the nanovirus. "I suppose you'll cross that bridge when you come to it." He holds out a datapad. "There is some kind of ionic interference that's rendering the ship's comms useless. We'll need a communications array of sufficient size and power to compensate."

Megatron takes it. "Meaning we'll have to cannibalize the ship," he says.

"Yes. I've outlined which components will prove necessary to the best of my ability, working from schematics available in the ship's database." Minimus' expression tightens. "Bearing in mind that my engineering skills are...amateurish, at best."

"Since my experience in such matters is negligible, I have no choice but to trust your judgment."

And Minimus has no choice but to trust that Megatron's pragmatism will win out over his hatred of Autobots.

With a sigh, he heads over to the ship's storage to find tools.

* * *

They get to work at once, and soon discover that they maximize their efficiency by working at night and recharging during the day. The daytime is blisteringly hot, while the nights are pleasantly cool. The only upside to the former is the abundant sunshine, which keeps the ship's power cells fully charged - allowing for the continued use of its environmental systems and washracks.

With the grime that insists on clinging to Minimus' armor, he makes thorough use of those washracks.

Minimus is perfectly content to spend his time together with Megatron in silence, exchanging only necessary information. But Megatron, evidently, is not.

"This isn't the first time I've wound up stranded on some hellhole due to Scorponok's treachery," says Megatron. "This world may not be pleasant, but it's far superior to Junkion." He gives Minimus a smirk. "And, as far as company goes, an Autobot beats a Quintesson. If only just barely."

Minimus resists a grimace. Junkion had once been thought a mere myth, with its cannibalistic mechanoids and acid oceans teeming with monsters. But several accounts from reputable sources have since confirmed its existence. Minimus has also had personal dealings with Quintessons over the eons. He dislikes painting entire species with too broad a brush, but he's yet to meet a single Quintesson that isn't a shade of psychopath.

"Why didn't Scorponok just kill you?" Minimus asks.

Megatron snorts. "Scorponok's greatest weakness has always been his desire to show off. If I was dead, how could I appreciate his brilliance?"

"This seems to be a recurring phenomenon within your ranks," Minimus notes.

"We work with what we're given," Megatron says, dryly.

Minimus is relieved when he doesn't say anything else.

* * *

Minimus stays up one day and makes a schedule for the next four deca-cycles - a regular part of his routine, under normal circumstances. He calculates the approximate time for each task, and the order in which they should be performed for maximum efficiency.

He forwards the finished spreadsheet to Megatron.

Megatron replies the next evening, after coming out of recharge:

'Noted.'

* * *

They take their energon on the bridge, and Megatron often uses the lull as an opportunity to start 'conversations'. That is to say, to antagonize Minimus under the  _guise_ of having conversations.

"You really are remarkably single-minded," Megatron says, apropos of nothing.

Megatron is certainly not the first mech to say so, and Minimus supposes it's accurate enough.

Megatron raises an optic ridge. "Did it even occur to you that you could strand me here?"

That gives Minimus genuine pause. He supposes that Megatron is correct, since the Decepticon has little in the way of technical skills. Without Minimus' cooperation, it's unlikely that he'd be able to complete the comm array. "It didn't," Minimus admits.

Megatron lapses into silence for several nanokliks, then says, "And it's not even because of self preservation, is it? You're well aware that I can kill you the moment you cease to be of use to me."

Minimus frowns. The words almost sound  _disparaging_. "My duty is to uphold the law, whether I find it convenient or not. You're a criminal, Megatron, and you  _will_ be brought to justice eventually. At a trial, if I have anything to say about it."

"Amazing," Megatron says. "You truly are the living embodiment of Autobot sentimentality."

Minimus bristles. "Of course you would characterize justice as sentimentality."

"Oh?"

The mockery in Megatron's tone is what finally causes Minimus to lose his temper. "If we succeed in contacting help, and I return you to the Decepticons, you will  _not_ face a tribunal. You will  _not_ be found guilty of contributory negligence. You will  _not_ be fashioned into a living bomb, nor sent to one of your scientists for experimentation." Mimimus glares at Megatron. "Loyal Decepticons - front-line soldiers, who would give their lives for  _your vision_ \- have begged me to kill them, rather than turn them over to Decepticon 'justice'. Terrified that they'll be branded traitors and punished in the most sadistic manner imaginable." Minimus' hands curl into fists. "Is this supposed to be an  _improvement_ upon the system you endeavored to replace?"

Megatron smirks. "Ah, that old canard. How predictable." Megatron meets his optics, unflinching. "Do you mean to accuse me of hypocrisy, Minimus? This obsession you have with the 'rule of law' is one that I've never shared. As if 'law' is somehow distinct from the powerful interests that spawned it.  _Of course_  rank comes with privileges. But privileges that are earned through  _struggle_ , rather than granted by the will of some ineffable deity. Or a system of law that is, in reality, nothing more than a means for the powerful to  _deceive_ the lowly into complacency.

"Those Decepticons who begged you for death didn't fear  _suffering,_ but  _dishonor_. The harshness of the penalties they face is a measure they themselves demand. A testament to their commitment to our shared cause." He crosses his arms over his torso. "In the event that the rank and file of my army decided collectively to defect, what could I possibly do to stop them? If there's one thing that Decepticons understand, it's the power of the collective will. And yet, they continue to fight in my name. Sacrificing their lives, as you said, for my vision. Certainly, a far more compelling mandate for leadership than any farcical election. Is that not  _justice_?"

Mimimus sighs, a sick, squirming sensation making itself known in his fuel tank. It's not as though he's  _surprised_ ; he's read  _Towards Peace_  more than a dozen times. Yet it's somehow more viscerally disturbing to hear these sentiments coming from the source, in person. To see for himself that Megatron sincerely believes them.

"I lack your mastery of rhetoric," Minimus says. "It's plain to me, though, that the objective of any system of justice should be to minimize suffering."

"And therein lies the disconnect," Megatron observes. "I say the purpose of such a system should be the collective betterment of Cybertronians as a species. Not  _coddling_. It is only through suffering, after all, that we attain wisdom. There will come a time when our suffering will end, but only as a  _byproduct_ of our collective struggle. It shouldn't be an end unto itself."

The unsettled feeling in Minimus' fuel tank has progressed to outright nausea. He refrains from voicing the thought that comes immediately to his processor, as it would no doubt risk a violent reprisal. Megatron is not a mech renowned for his forbearance towards insults.

"If you have something to say," Megatron presses, "then say it."

"It's...uncharitable," Minimus admits. "And I have no way to defend myself if you take offense."

"If I were inclined to take offense at anything, it would be your presumption that I'm so easily rattled," says Megatron. He actually seems to find this amusing. "We are alone here, Minimus."

Minimus has no idea what  _that_ has to do with anything. Still, he goes through a ventilation cycle, then says, "Your words strike me as the rationalizations of a very eloquent sadist."

Megatron chuckles. "Uncharitable indeed. Though entirely understandable, from your perspective. Given that Autobot idealism of yours, the alternative must make you deeply uncomfortable."

The patronizing tone rankles, though Minimus supposes it's a superior outcome to a blast from Megatron's integrated weaponry.

"Alas," Megatron continues, "if every mech could stomach the sacrifices necessary for true, enduring peace, there would be no war in the first place."

Recognizing that he's becoming too angry to respond in a responsible manner, Minimus stands stiffly and exits the bridge.

* * *

At night, the landscape of their prison takes on a decidedly melancholy cast. Bathed in the pale light of the planet's twin moons, the endless desert can almost be mistaken for a war-ravaged Cybertron.

Minimus feels it, then, as he gazes out at the desolation: the creeping existential dread that has become all too familiar over the centuries. The words of  _Afterlight_ are just as familiar - the closest thing to a balm that he's managed to find. "You flare, you flicker, you fade-"

"And in the end all your tomorrows become yesterdays." It's Megatron. Minimus must have been so lost in thought that he didn't hear the other mech approaching. Indeed, Minimus hadn't even been aware that he'd spoken the poem aloud. "An old acquaintance of mine was also fond of that piece."

"Hell's teeth," Minimus grouses. "Can a mech really not get any privacy on a planet with only  _one other inhabitant_?" There's a brief moment of satisfaction, before Minimus' fuel tank engages in a deeply unpleasant twisting sensation.

"You're actually showing some  _fire_ tonight." There's that same amusement from before in Megatron's tone -- as if Minimus is a pet turbofox performing charming tricks. "I was beginning to wonder if you were a customer service drone masquerading as a warrior."

The remark stings, but Minimus resolves not to let his temper get the better of him a third time. "I'm no warrior," he says. "I'm a soldier, and nothing more."

"How dull your life must be," says Megatron, taking a seat beside him. Minimus suspects that denying his clear desire for privacy is meant to serve as a reminder of who exactly is in charge.

Getting up and walking away is an option, of course. But Minimus has his pride. "It is what it is," he responds.

An awkward silence settles between them. Or, at least, _Minimus_ feels awkward. He wonders if it's a sensation that Megatron is even capable of experiencing.

"Why that poem?" Megatron asks, after several kliks.

Minimus supposes there's no reason not to answer. "My duties mean that I'm often alone. It's...reassuring, to be reminded that my solitude is not what defines me."

Megatron lets a short sound of amusement.

"I suppose you think this another example of 'Autobot sentimentality'," Minimus says, unable to keep an undercurrent of sharpness from his tone.

"Not at all," Megatron replies. "I just remembered that this particular poem was published under a pseudonym. The author could be anyone. Even a Decepticon."

"I suppose it's possible," Minimus concedes. " _You_  wrote poetry, after all." Though Megatron's had all been of a decidedly political bent.

"You sound skeptical."

Minimus sighs. "Whoever wrote it may well be a Decepticon  _now_ , but it's unlikely that they were when the poem was actually composed."

"And how exactly do you figure that?"

"A poem about the bittersweet transience of meaning strikes me as being deeply at odds with the grandiose vision outlined in  _Towards Peace_."

Megatron makes another sound of amusement. "Perhaps you're right."

They lapse once more into silence.

* * *

Minimus has grown accustomed to being large, as he's rarely had occasion to remove the Magnus armor. So the inconveniences of his true stature have largely fallen by the wayside.

He is, however, becoming rapidly reacquainted with the limitations of his irreducible form.

Minimus glares up at the component that remains firmly out of his reach.

There's a low chuckle from behind him. "Do you require assistance, Minimus?"

"I don't suppose you know how to dismantle an ionic regulator without damaging it," Minimus says, a sinking feeling in his fuel tank.

"I don't," Megatron replies.

With a sigh, Minimus holds his arms out to the sides.

Megatron's hands are so large that they wrap almost completely around Minimus' midsection, and Minimus has to suppress a shiver. It's been so long since anyone has touched him in his irreducible form; he's not used to the sensitivity of his own plating.

He's uncomfortably conscious of those hands during the whole exercise. Of who it is that they belong to.

It's a miracle, really, that he manages to complete his task without mishap.

* * *

He notices the way Megatron looks at him, sometimes. Can feel the intensity of it burning into his plating like a laser scalpel. It leads Minimus to only one conclusion.

"If you're planning to kill me," Minimus says, when he catches Megatron in the act, "I request that you let me wear the Magnus armor. I'd like to go out with at least a modicum of dignity."

Megatron startles, as if waking from a reverie. "I-" Megatron blinks his optics once. "I have no violent intentions towards you, Minimus."

"Regardless," Minimus says. He's sure that Megatron will wait until the array is closer to completion, but 'violent intentions' are inevitable.

Megatron's mouth turns down at the sides. "If it comes to that, I will honor your request."

Minimus nods once, then returns to his work.

Megatron must have dwelled on the conversation, though. Because later, when they're taking their energon, he says, "Why do you think it would be an indignity to die as your true self?"

Minimus sighs, and doesn't answer.

Megatron presses on. "You're easily the most forthright person I've ever met, and yet you insist on living a lie. Is  _that_ not the ultimate indignity?"

"Ultra Magnus is not a  _lie,_ " Minimus snaps, before mastering himself. More calmly, he says, "Ultra Magnus is a  _symbol_." And one that is far more valuable than Minimus Ambus will ever be.

"A distinction without a difference."

Minimus sighs again, lacking the energy to argue. Especially when he knows that Megatron only ever does so in bad faith. "Your disapproval is noted," he says.

Megatron frowns, and Minimus can tell - with a shameful swell of triumph - that he's lost his momentum. With that, the subject is dropped.

* * *

Minimus has been trying to work out where exactly they are in the universe, despite their lack of G.P.S. It requires manually gathering astronomical data and cross-referencing it with the ship's database. So it's entirely by accident that he discovers that the planet has a parabolic orbit -- a fact that will delay their work by precious deca-cycles.

He creates a modified schedule, this time making sure to account for the inevitable shift in temperature as the planet moves further from the sun, and sends it to Megatron.

Megatron replies:

'Noted, with thanks.'

* * *

The cold comes, as predicted.

The days grow shorter; the nights grow longer. Minimus is starting to feel it in his struts: a deep, persistent ache that causes his joints to lock up at inconvenient intervals.

Cybertronians do well in space, where the vacuum acts as an insulator. So long as they enter it already warm, they need not expend much energy maintaining internal temperatures. On a planet like this, however, the cold leeches away at their energy reserves. Both Minimus and Megatron are running on too little energon to rely on their heating protocols for long.

Even the ship can no longer provide the kind of buffer against the elements that it once did. There's no longer enough daylight to keep its power reserves at a sufficient level for operating its environmental systems - not without burning supplementary energon, at least. Its heavy hull shields them from the frigid, high-velocity winds that periodically scour the surface of the planet. But the cold is inescapable.

In contrast to conditions upon their initial arrival, it's now the days that prove just barely tolerable. And thus, the cycles in which work is possible are becoming scarcer by the solar cycle.

Minimus digs out the thermal tarp he keeps in storage. He only has the one, as it functions best when body heat is shared. He presents it to Megatron with what he likes to think is admirable stoicism, despite the rapid beating of his fuel pump.

Megatron lets out a sigh of resignation. "It's most effective if our frames are touching, yes?"

"It will still work if we simply lie next to each other," Minimus protests, though it sounds weak even in his own audio receptors.

"But not as efficiently." Megatron opens his arms in a clear gesture of invitation. "Come here, Minimus."

"I- I'm not sure that I feel comfortable-"

"And you think that  _I do_?" Megatron says sharply, cutting him off. "Our dignity won't keep us from freezing into stasis lock."

Minimus ex-vents, his entire frame stiff with apprehension, but acquiesces. He walks over to the recharge slab, sets the thermal tarp down beside Megatron, and steps into the warlord's open arms. Megatron lies back, maneuvering Minimus with ease onto his torso. He then fiddles with the tarp until the both of them are completely covered.

Minimus is warmer already, though it does nothing to help him relax. The sensation isn't...unpleasant. It is, in fact, the opposite of that. Which is problematic, to say the least.

But there's nothing for it. Feeling truly warm for the first time in a deca-cycle, Minimus falls into recharge.

* * *

Minimus comes out of recharge slowly, lulled into indolence by the cocoon of warmth enveloping his frame. Warmth, a purring engine, the pleasant buzz of an EM field, and strong arms. He nuzzles sleepily into the broad chestplate beneath him.

There's a curious throbbing in his array. The kind that's usually reserved for clandestine sessions alone on his recharge slab.

But he is not alone. And, very suddenly, he remembers just where exactly he is, and with whom.

"Awake at last," Megatron says, voice even raspier than usual. It sends an involuntary shiver down Minimus' spinal strut.

His face burns with shame. There's no doubt in his processor that Megatron can feel the heat coming from his array. "I apologize," Minimus says. "It's an involuntary reaction, but still entirely inappropriate." He attempts to push himself up, only for Megatron's arms to hold him firmly in place.

"Check your chronometer, Minimus. It would be deeply unwise for you to venture outside of the tarp." Megatron ex-vents a sigh. "I'd be quite the hypocrite to hold it against you, in any case."

It's then that Minimus notices that there's a distinctive heat emanating from Megatron's modesty panel, as well. "Oh," he says.

"Quite," says Megatorn, dryly. "Involuntary, as you said."

Minimus goes through a ventilation cycle. "Maybe, if we separate, but remain under the tarp..."

"Probably the most reasonable solution," Megatron concedes. "And yet, I can't help but find it disagreeable."

Minimus should be horrified by those words. And, to a certain extent, he is. But to a much larger, more immediate extent, they make his spark feel like it's going to explode out of its chamber. He barely manages to suppress a whimper as his valve clenches down on nothing. One of the arms holding him in place loosens, and Megatron runs a very large hands down the length of Minimus' spinal strut. Minimus actually hears the way the charge suffusing his frame crackles against Megatron's palm; his face grows warmer still.

He gives in to the impulse to trace his fingers over the plating of Megatron's lower abdomen, and feels an answering crackle of charge emanating from Megatron's frame. He shudders.

Megatron stiffens beneath him, and for a moment Minimus wonders if he's done something wrong. But then Minimus is being pulled up, gently, by those big, impossibly strong hands.

Megatron kisses him.


	2. Megatron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say how much I appreciate all your comments. I apologize for not replying to them individually, but my brain gremlins get in the way. Please know that they're the highlight of my day.
> 
> I hope you all are ready for some intense sexual tension and pining from Megatron's POV.
> 
> Warning for referenced non-con in this chapter.

It has been over four million years since Megatron has allowed himself to have more than the barest of physical contact. Not since Terminus. With the brief and disastrous exception of Impactor.

On Messatine, during the cold season, the environmental systems had often malfunctioned. He remembers long, frigid nights, clinging to Terminus for warmth. Falling into stasis lock had meant being thrown in the smelter, back then.

But it had never been anything like  _this_ , with Terminus. No impulse to explore every nook and cranny of the frame pressed up against his own; no charge coursing through him, making him intensely aware of his interface array. 

His damned interface array. A superfluous piece of equipment that he’d only ever bothered to have installed because of Impactor. All it represents now is the folly of his youth: seeking petty attachments by imitating the Forged. He’s often considered telling Shockwave to omit the blasted thing the next time he requires a rebuild, but knows that to do so would be an admission of weakness. As if he can’t resist temptation without removing the means of succumbing to it.

It’s becoming increasingly apparent, however, that Megatron has never before experienced the true nature of temptation. And his reticence to reveal weakness is starting to seem an awful lot like hubris. 

He’d thought he understood desire. Acted upon it, with Impactor. Resisted it, with Starscream. But this? This goes beyond the memories of Impactor filling him, or the occasional twinge in his array when Starscream has a particularly devious expression on his face. It goes beyond even the furtive, shameful fantasies of Optimus Prime, defeated in body and spark, begging for Megatron to claim him. 

This new version of desire is a parasite, feeding upon his very spark. 

If only killing Ultra Magnus had been a possibility, back when Megatron had still been blissfully ignorant that an Autobot named Minimus Ambus had ever existed. Because now Minimus is gasping into Megatron’s mouth, his lithe little frame shivering with the charge that’s arcing between them, and Megatron is starting to realize just how dangerous this situation has become.

The kiss is clumsy. Of course it is. Megatron hasn’t kissed anyone since his reunion with Impactor, back in his gladiatorial days. Even so, he’s close to overloading already. Minimus must be, as well, with the way he’s trembling in Megatron’s arms. 

Megatron wonders if he could cajole Minimus into moving his panel aside. Mass displacement isn’t an option while running on so little energon. So Megatron’s spike would be a tight fit, even at its smallest configuration. But he’d make certain that Minimus would be hot and dripping for him. If Megatron is careful, and patient, he could slide into the grasping heat of Minimus’ frame. Feel him come apart from the inside. All that professionalism -- that unwavering commitment to misguided duty -- melting away into wanton sensation.

Minimus breaks the kiss, jolting Megatron out of his reverie. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” Minimus says, the words choked with static. “It’s irresponsible. For both of us.”

He’s right, of course. And damn him for it. “Then what do you propose we do about our shared...condition?”

“A few kliks in the cold should take care of the charge.”

Megatron gives an incredulous huff. “Releasing the heat would be foolish.” With great reluctance, he lifts Minimus off of him and places him on the far side of the slab, careful to keep them both enveloped by the tarp. The ‘far side’ isn’t very far at all, though; the slab is meant for a single mech the size of Ultra Magnus, with only a little room to spare. This means that there are only a few centimeters between them. To compensate, Megatron turns over onto his side, facing away from the smaller mech. 

There’s a very real temptation to transform his panel away and self-service, even as Megatron is disgusted with himself for contemplating such a thing. 

What an utterly shameful loss of control.

A thought suddenly occurs to him. “According to your calculations, this cold spell is going to last for deca-cycles,” he says.

“Yes,” Minimus agrees. 

“Minimus…” Megatron cycles through a ventilation. “We’re going to have to do this  _every night_.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Oh,  _slag_.”

It’s the first time Megatron has ever heard Minimus swear.

* * *

With those ‘amateurish’ engineering skills of his, Minimus ends up making a small heating device that can run for a full mega-cycle on just a small amount of energon. It’s only logical that he’d have honed such abilities, Megatron supposes; Minimus spends so much time alone in deep space that an inability to repair his own ship would be tantamount to suicide. 

That night, they relocate to the floor, cover themselves with the tarp, and place the device between them. 

It works.

Megatron can’t decide if he’s relieved or disappointed. 

* * *

Ultra Magnus had been on the far periphery of Megatron’s awareness for most of the war. A figure of scorn, when Megatron bothered to think of him at all. He’d always assumed that Prime had given Magnus over to Tyrest because of how utterly expendable he was. 

When Soundwave had proposed the theory that the original Ultra Magnus had died, and that another mech had undergone a remodel in order to take his place, Megatron had thought it absurd. Not because he’d thought such things were beyond the scope of a talented medic, but because he hadn’t been able to fathom going to such trouble to preserve the legacy of  _Ultra Magnus_ , of all bots.

Soundwave’s theory has, of course, been mostly validated. 

And Megatron never could’ve anticipated that the mech behind the mask would be so alluring.

Or, perhaps it is the  _spark_ that calls to him so, and not the frame. His impressions of Ultra Magnus came from his original incarnation, after all. Perhaps this attraction would have arisen regardless of whether Minimus had shed the armor or not, given enough time. 

Perhaps it is simply that they are completely alone, with little in the way of distractions. 

Megatron can admit that his needling of Minimus had mostly been a matter of relieving boredom, at first. But, over time, he’s realized that the excitement doesn’t arise from making Minimus  _uncomfortable_ , per se. It comes from upsetting his equilibrium. From making him  _squirm_.

It had been around the time when he’d started to devise schemes to that end that he’d realized he was wading into dangerous waters. Or, more accurately, when the  _scheming_ had shaded into  _fantasizing_. Feeling charge building up in his frame at the thought of Minimus writhing under his intimate attentions.

He can reach over  _now_ , if he wants. Push the heating device aside and pull Minimus into an embrace. 

He manages, with great effort, to resist the impulse.

* * *

Under Decepticon law, fraternization is strictly prohibited. With very good reason. 

Autobots are still Cybertronians, so being attracted to some of them is inevitable. Moreover, the demands of Decepticon fortitude can be...taxing. Intellectually, Megatron can understand the appeal of seeking comfort in a comely Autobot prisoner -- a person who appears, on the surface, to be entirely under one’s own power. Indeed, if it were simply a matter of physical release, Megatron might even tolerate such behavior.

Alas, for better or worse, Cybertronians simply aren’t wired that way. There is no way to interface without becoming  _attached_. 

Over the eons, Megatron has personally borne witness to the disastrous fallout of fraternization. Defections, of course, for those who’d never particularly embraced Decepticon ideology. An outcome that’s at least fairly clean and straightforward. The consequences for the genuine loyalists are usually far messier. Megatron has seen hardened officers begging, with sparks in their optics, for their ‘pets’ to be spared. Others take matters into their own hands, killing their lovers themselves, only to spiral into madness, addiction, or suicide. 

Sometimes the relationships are coerced; sometimes they’re the result of a mutual attraction. But, however they start, they always end in disaster.

Megatron remembers how Tarn had come to him, fresh from his defeat at Grindcore, and fallen to his knees. Confessed with streaming optics that he’d become distracted by a shameful dalliance. Begged Megatron to kill him for his failure.

Megatron wonders sometimes if denying Tarn’s request had been a mistake. Megatron isn’t certain of the fate that befell the Autobot in question, but the pattern had still held true for Tarn: vice piled upon vice as the centuries rolled on, his judgment growing increasingly erratic. He’s still useful, for now. But Megatron knows that the scales will tip eventually.

And these are all indiscretions that occur  _in spite_  of the prohibition. Megatron shudders to think how much more common they would be without such disincentives. 

Rank comes with privileges, of course. Megatron will face no  _legal_ consequences for a private lapse in judgment on some desolate rock. But that offers him no consolation at all.

Because there’s simply no outcome where he gets to  _keep_ Minimus Ambus. Whether that means killing him, or releasing him back to Tyrest. The thought of it already makes Megatron...uneasy. 

How much worse will it be, if he actually allows himself to act on this attraction?

* * *

Minimus is perhaps the only genuinely trustworthy person that Megatron has ever met. 

And not even in the sense that he’s predictable -- though he certainly is that. No, Minimus is trustworthy because he is utterly  _inflexible_. If he believes that something is right, he will do it. Even when it isn’t easy. Even when it endangers his own life. Megatron is certain that Minimus will keep his word and stick by his principles, no matter the obstacles in his path. 

Even Prime, back when he still went by the designation Orion Pax, had proven himself fully capable of betraying his own principles. Megatron remembers one such altercation with particular fondness: Pax, during Zeta’s tenure as Prime, calling a parley as a pretext for arresting him. 

Of course, no leader worth the title could ever be as suicidally principled as Minimus. Prime’s moral flexibility is easily his most admirable trait, and the only reason why the Autobots have managed to thwart Megatron’s efforts for so long. It is simply the  _hypocrisy_ that rankles. He could respect Prime’s pragmatism, Prime’s  _ambition_ , if only it came without the self-righteous posturing.

Megatron wonders, laying on his back with Minimus in recharge beside him, if Minimus is aware of Prime’s capacity for deception. If that is perhaps the reason why he’d been drawn into the service of Tyrest. The Autobots must surely fall dreadfully short of Minimus’ exacting standards. It only makes sense that he would seek out a position that sets him apart from the rest of his faction.

By that same token, however, Minimus would make a truly awful Decepticon. He is fastidious, but not ambitious. Conscientious, but not driven. He isn’t  _completely_ guileless, but it’s a very near thing. In the often brutal arena of Decepticon power struggles, he would doubtlessly be trampled underfoot. Even a once-idealist like Soundwave has been shaped into an opportunist through the rigors of Decepticon politics.

But Minimus wouldn’t adapt. And, truthfully, Megatron wouldn’t want him to. Because what Megatron really wants, in his spark of sparks, is something completely absurd.

A sanctuary.

A Minimus completely removed from the hierarchy, hidden away in Megatron’s quarters. A companion, rather than a subordinate, who Megatron could return to after cycle upon cycle of dealing with incompetence and petty subterfuge.

He thinks about it more often than he’d care to admit, spark aching at the sheer impossibility of it ever coming to fruition. Minimus would never agree to such an arrangement. And, even if he did, Soundwave would uncover it in short order. It would undermine Megatron’s credibility and present an unacceptable point of vulnerability, ripe for exploitation. 

But oh, how sweet it would be, for however long it lasted. To have somebody in his life without an ulterior motive _._ Except, perhaps, the desire to rein in Megatron’s more violent or petty impulses. 

And if, on occasion, Megatron were to pull Minimus to him. Tease over Minimus’ plating. Coax open his panel to reveal a dripping valve and eager spike…

He cuts off that train of thought before it can go too far. Rolls onto his side so that he’s facing away from the smaller mech. 

Doing so makes it less of a strain not to dwell on how easily Minimus could ride his mouth to overload.

* * *

As the daylight cycles become too brief to provide any relief from the cold, much of their time under the tarp is spent awake. They convert the tarp into a makeshift tent, placing storage drums at strategic points to allow for greater ease of movement. Several of the drums contain energon, so they don’t have to venture outside in order to refuel. 

The batteries on their datapads can last for deca-cycles without charging, which means some measure of mental stimulation outside of their conversations. No small comfort, considering how their conversations have drastically deteriorated in quality.

Minimus has generally comported himself with a stark professionalism. But his fits of temper are increasing, and not even in a manner which is at all entertaining. This is not the impassioned, argumentative Minimus that Megatron so enjoys, but a Minimus who cuts off all conversation with stock, noncommittal platitudes. 

It’s doing nothing to help with Megatron’s fraying resolve. 

Megatron doesn’t believe in helping others, generally speaking. Indeed, he sees the impulse to do so as something of a personal failing. It creates a dynamic of expectation and indebtedness that is wholly unproductive for all parties involved.

He reasons, however, that his desire to help Minimus is ultimately about helping himself. After all: if he allows Minimus’ foul mood to continue, it’s only a matter of time before his own self-control snaps and he resorts to  _fragging_ the malaise out of him. 

“I’m not going to bother asking you what’s wrong,” Megatron says, after one dismissal too many. “I will simply assume that our current arrangements are preventing you from dealing with it in your customary manner. Am I correct?”

Minimus shifts, clearly uncomfortable. “It is...intrusive,” he says, by way of confirmation.

“I don’t care,” Megatron insists. “It can’t be worse than this constant  _sulking_.”

Minimus lapses into silence for several kliks. Chastened or offended, Megatron can’t tell. Finally, he says, “I listen to music.”

Megatron barely resists the urge to snort. Is that  _all_?

“And...I sing.”

Now  _that_ makes more sense. Minimus has spent the last however many centuries protecting the dignity of the ‘symbol’ named Ultra Magnus. And singing has never been a particularly  _dignified_ occupation in Cybertronian society. Acceptable in communal settings, but otherwise unseemly; the province of bots who lack a function.

The Functionist Council had despised art in general, and the performing arts in particular. The Senate had been only slightly less hostile, for fear of ‘subversive propaganda’ rather than an affront to the will of Primus. The latter, at least, had a point. Megatron had done a great deal of recruiting within the ‘creative’ community, as well as their audience.

Of course, as an Autobot, Minimus officially rejects both Functionism and the repressive oligarchy of the Senate. Embraces ‘freedom of expression’ and other such sentimental nonsense. But, in practice, many Autobots still harbor Functionist attitudes. Megatron suspects that Minimus is no exception. His reluctance to transform into his alt-mode certainly indicates as much.

It’s altogether incongruous, really. Minimus has never so much as used a  _metaphor_ for all the time that Megatron has known him, and yet he’s fond of both music and poetry. And presumably also of singing poetic lyrics positively bursting with figurative language. 

“If that is what you need to do, then do it,” says Megatron.

Minimus does not oblige him.

* * *

Megatron isn’t accustomed to being ignored.

He’s even less accustomed to the oppressive nature of the silence that descends between them. It’s absurd, to feel so isolated when there’s another mech lying just over a meter away from him. 

Perhaps most unsettling of all is that he doesn’t have a strategy for dealing with it. Simply  _ordering_ Minimus to snap out of it is clearly not effective. Threats would be both useless and counterproductive. A rousing speech, he suspects, would earn him only more stony silence.

He needs to find an alternative solution.

Which he can only do once he’s figured out what the problem actually is. He’d assumed it was simply a function of the obvious: stranded on an inhospitable planet with an enemy, and little hope of rescue. Forced into close proximity, with no privacy. Ashamed and frustrated over a mutual attraction that should never be acted upon.

But, upon reflection, Megatron suspects that the answer lies elsewhere. 

It comes to him, at last, when he notices Minimus frowning as he runs his hands over his own plating. He remembers, then, how Minimus had paid daily visits to the washracks. How he’d sometimes rearrange his otherwise immutable routine in light of exposure to a particularly vigorous windstorm, or an unexpected spurt of lubricant.

The washracks are currently inaccessible, with their mutual confinement to the tarp. Moreover, they’re non-operational. In the absence of solar power, the solvent recycling would need to burn energon in order to function. Nevermind that the solvent would freeze within mere kliks of being dispensed. 

Strictly speaking, Minimus isn’t even dirty. But Megatron suspects his discomfort is largely psychological. For somebody so preoccupied with orderliness, being denied such an essential ritual must seem like a complete loss of control. 

The solution is clear.

When he leaves the tarp, Minimus doesn’t even ask him where he’s going.

* * *

He’s freezing by the time he returns with a drum of half-frozen solvent and a stack of cleaning pads. But the look of surprise on Minimus’ face is worth it.

“Give it a cycle to fully defrost,” Megatron says, setting the drum down next to the energon, before rolling onto his back.

“...Why?” asks Minimus.

“That should be obvious,” says Megatron, perhaps more gruffly than he originally intended. And then, before he can stop himself: “I can help you, if you like.” Hastily, he adds, “With your back.”

He can tell that Minimus’ first instinct is to decline the offer outright. But the thought of leaving a part of his body dirty must override the impulse, because he murmurs, “Thank you.”

For the next cycle, Megatron attempts, with little success, to return to the novel he’d been reading. Abandons the endeavor entirely when Minimus begins to bathe himself. Minimus’ barely-restrained sighs of pleasure are simply too distracting.

At last, Minimus resets his vocalizer. Then, after a moment of hesitation, he says, “Megatron?” 

Abruptly, Megatron moves the heating device aside and scoots over to him. He takes the pad from Minimus, running it as slowly and as gently as he can over Minimus’ back. His hand covers the entire expanse of it, the warmth of the plating beneath seeping through the pad. He’s acutely aware of how close together their bodies are. 

Minimus shivers. Fails to muffle a gasp. Megatron continues his ministrations long after the plating is clean, watching with his infra-red sensors as the heat starts to rise more intensely from Minimus’ frame. Tiring of the pretext, he drops the pad, shifting and curling forward to press his lips against the cables of Minimus’ neck. 

“Minimus,” he ex-vents. He places his other hand over Minimus’ hip strut, just barely brushing over a seam. A wordless request.

“Please,” Minimus says, his voice choked with static and  _want_.

Megatron is completely undone.


	3. Minimus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I had some other plot bunnies hijack my brain for a while. 
> 
> This fic has expanded to 4 chapters. Because I'm apparently really bad at estimating how long things will be.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy. I know I certainly enjoyed writing this one. :)

Minimus hadn’t realized just how much he’d come to rely upon Megatron, for more than just aiding in the construction of the array. 

Lying there, feeling filthy. Itching under his plating in a way that was entirely alien to him. Spending half the time wishing that he could douse himself in solvent, and the other half wishing that Megatron would reach over and touch him. He’d wanted so badly to lose himself in conversation, but had been unable to formulate his thoughts into anything appropriately professional. 

However much frustration his interactions with Megatron had previously inspired, their loss had been far more distressing. 

And then Megatron had helped him. Without prompting, he’d intuited the source of Minimus’ discomfort and devised a means to resolve it within the constraints of their abysmal circumstances. 

After that, all of Minimus’ fortitude had crumbled away.

For Autobots, there is no  _legal_ prohibition against consensual fraternization. Such a measure would be in contravention of the principle of bodily autonomy that undergirds much of the Autobot Code. But it carries a stigma, nonetheless — and rightfully so. To have such a relationship with a Decepticon displays a startling lack of impulse control and judgement. Nevermind the  _moral_ considerations.

Minimus is more aware of those considerations than most. And, as such, he of all bots should not allow himself to give in to his desires.

More to the point, he shouldn’t even have such desires in the first place. 

Megatron’s hand teases at the edge of Minimus’ panel in what’s clearly a request. Minimus is no longer surprised by the consideration. He doesn’t imagine for a nanoklik that it stems from a general respect for bodily autonomy — a principle that the Decepticons eschew entirely. He’d thought at first that it was the result of caution; a shared understanding of their respective responsibilities. But Megatron is clearly ignoring such concerns at present, leading Minimus to conclude that, logically, Megatron’s motives for taking such care must derive from something else altogether.

Respect, perhaps. Even...affection. 

The mere possibility compels Minimus to transform his panel away.

Megatron’s engine revs so powerfully that Minimus can feel the vibrations in his own frame, ramping up a charge that’s already embarrassingly high. A thick finger brushes over his node, trailing down to his valve, and Minimus shudders as his plating crackles.

Suddenly, Megatron is rolling onto his back, pulling Minimus along as if he weighs nothing. And, to a mech with Megatron’s strength, that may as well be the case. Minimus finds himself back in the position that started this whole mess, only this time the kiss is even more intense. He hears it when Megatron’s spike pressurizes, and is blindsided by how his valve throbs in response.

Megatron breaks the kiss to drag Minimus down, until Minimus can feel Megatron’s spike between his thighs. Minimus is acting on pure instinct when he grinds down against it, reveling in the way it teases against the outermost nodes of his valve. The spike is far too large for penetration, and it  _should_  be a relief. But all Minimus can think about as that hard, thick spike drags over the rim of his valve is how badly he wants it  _inside_.

“Just say the word,” Megatron rumbles. “I can adjust the size.”

Minimus overloads very suddenly. Caught by surprise, he’s unable to suppress the moan that escapes his vocalizer as the charge courses through his frame in blissful arcs. Megatron lets out an answering groan as he too succumbs to the charge, his spike twitching rhythmically between Minimus’ thighs.

After the charge has run its course, Minimus lies against Megatron’s torso in a daze, shuddering slightly when Megatron’s depressurizing spike brushes against his oversensitive valve. Minimus is grateful that bots don’t release any transfluid outside of interface. With a mech the size of Megatron, the mess would be truly heinous.

He lies there for a while, unable to process his thoughts with any kind of coherence. Normally this would be the part of a self-service where he either fell into recharge or got on with his regularly-scheduled business. But he can already feel the charge amping up again. Some half-addled part of his processor spits forth the hypothesis that it has to do with his close proximity to a mech so very much larger than himself. That he's being affected by Megatron's residual charge.

He makes a needy, involuntary sound, shame mingling with arousal to heat his entire frame. He can feel his own lubricant dripping down, no doubt soiling Megatron’s plating. He should apologize for such a shameless display, but all that comes out when he tries is a garbled hiss of static.

Megatron’s engine gives another rev. He hoists Minimus up, brushes a kiss across his lips, then says, “Put your arms around my neck.”

Minimus complies, and is rewarded by Megatron maneuvering his left arm down between them to slip a thick finger into Minimus’ valve. Minimus lets out another humiliating sound, pressing his hips down in an attempt to draw it in deeper. But the angle is awkward, and the action merely presses it more firmly into the nodes at the rim. A second finger joins the first, the stretch of it burning for a moment before melting away into a wave of euphoria. And then Megatron begins the pump them in and out with careful flexes of his wrist. 

Minimus can only hold on to Megatron’s neck as the pleasure builds, shuddering, cooling fans whining, wishing he could manually silence his vocalizer. Alas, he cannot, and he lets out a choked-off cry when his second overload sweeps through him.

Minimus is thankful for the care that Megatron takes in removing his fingers. He would disentangle his arms from around Megatron’s neck, but he finds that he has no strength. So he just stays where he is while Megatron uses the previously discarded cleaning pad to wipe up the mess he’s made, shame coiling in his fuel tank.

But Megatron’s frame is warm and sturdy beneath him, and Megatron’s hand is a comforting weight against his back. Soon enough, he is lulled into recharge.

* * *

Megatron is still unconscious when Minimus awakens, prompting Minimus to extricate himself as delicately as he can manage from Megatron’s embrace. He returns to his side of the tarp, ashamed of his own reluctance. Already longing to return. He busies himself with another cleaning pad, soaking it in the solvent Megatron provided. He doesn’t feel any better after he’s done, but Megatron stirs, which gives Minimus some respite from his own thoughts.

Now he just has to deal with the awkwardness instead. 

Except Megatron doesn’t mention what happened at all. Instead, he says, “I asked you a question a few solar cycles ago. You weren’t in a state to answer it then, but I’d still like to hear your thoughts.”

“Regarding what?” Minimus asks.

“Your interpretation of the Ballad of Tetrahex. I noticed that the copy you have in the ship’s database is annotated. That is your doing, I presume?”

“Y-yes. I...dabble.”

There’s no hint of anything but sincerity in Megatron’s voice when he says, “You dabble well.”

And so Minimus finds himself explaining, in great detail, the flaws in the traditional translation of the epic poem into Neocybex. How the mistranslations of only a few key words, and missing punctuation, changed its entire meaning.

Megatron listens without interrupting, even as Minimus’ explanation drags on for klik after klik. After a while, Minimus falters; nobody ever actually allows him to continue on like this uninterrupted. He trails off self-consciously.

“Fascinating,” Megatron says, without a trace of irony. “Are you well-versed in Old Cybertronian?”

“My brother was,” Minimus says. “As he was in most things. I was working off of his translation.”

“Dominus Ambus?” Megatron asks.

Of course Megatron has heard of Dominus. Most bots with any kind of interest in intellectual matters have, whether they’re formally educated or autodidacts. “Yes.”

“Hmm.” Minimus braces for him to say something else. Something upsetting. But instead, he asks, “Do you think the mistranslation was deliberate?”

Minimus is taken-aback. “I never actually considered the possibility,” he admits.

“Most mechs lack your integrity, Minimus,” Megatron says. “If your analysis is correct, then the original form of the ballad wasn’t nearly as sympathetic to Functionist theology.”

“I just assumed it was due to incompetence...but I suppose there was a potential motive to obfuscate the original meaning.”

Megatron chuckles. “There may be hope for you yet.” The words are said teasingly, but without any mockery.

They lapse into silence, then, and now the awkwardness finally makes itself known. Minimus is suddenly struck by an intense desire to shift closer to Megatron and curl against his frame. 

This time, he manages to resist.

* * *

The awkwardness doesn’t last.

Indeed, something fundamental has shifted between them. The strain of antagonism that characterized all their early interactions has all but disappeared, replaced by — well, not  _ease_ , exactly, but a rapport of sorts. Megatron still challenges him constantly, but in a way that lacks any disdain. He challenges Minimus in the manner of a mech who simply enjoys debate for its own sake.

And, much to Minimus’ shame, he finds it exhilarating. 

Awareness hits him at the oddest moments. He’ll be speaking with Megatron about something that nobody else in Minimus’ life ever tolerates for more than a few kliks — not since Dominus — marveling that there’s actually another person who shares his obscure interests, and he’ll then suddenly remember that this is the same mech responsible for suffering so immense that it’s impossible to properly conceive of its scope. He’ll get a flash of recollection: the aftermath of a battle, a liberated prison camp. Mangled corpses and prisoners so traumatized that they can never fully recover. 

All of it ultimately Megatron’s fault.

It’s worse, in a way, knowing that Megatron  _isn’t_ a monster. That he can be thoughtful. Even gentle. That his clumsiness in such matters is evidently due to a lack of practice rather than a lack of affect. Minimus doesn’t know how to integrate this information into his long-established understanding of how the universe is supposed to work.

Megatron has nothing of political or strategic value to gain from treating Minimus kindly. Therefore, the only conclusion is that he must find such behavior to be intrinsically rewarding. The implications of that only worsens Minimus’ sense of being completely unmoored from anything resembling a sane, orderly reality. And the only anchor that Minimus has through all of this is, ironically enough, Megatron himself.

Minimus is beginning to realize that he’s never truly  _craved_ anything before. He’s stood in judgement over other mechs for their vices. For their weakness of character. But it’s clear now that his own righteousness has been due to a lack of temptation, rather than any strength of will. How easy it is to resist vices, when one feels no pull towards them.

What a fool he’s been, believing himself to be above such things. Because he feels it now: a desire so intense that he’s almost sick with it. To touch. To be touched. To lose himself in Megatron’s impossibly strong embrace. To be wholly and utterly  _possessed_  — by this brilliant, awful mech who is responsible for so much pain.

He has no excuses. It is weakness, pure and simple. But the shame does nothing to prevent the growing fondness, or the desire thrumming beneath his plating.

* * *

They resume work on the communications array the moment that the cold finally retreats enough for them to leave their makeshift tent. It doesn’t prove to be the distraction that Minimus hoped it would be. 

Like this, he can see Megatron’s effortless strength on display. The proud, hard lines of his frame; his plating gleaming in the sunlight. And now, when Megatron gazes at him, Minimus recognizes the hunger in his optics for what it is.

They still take their daily energon sitting on the bridge, and there’s still a tension between them. It’s simply of a very different nature than the hostility of before.

One night, their hands accidentally brush as they simultaneously reach for their energon cubes. The touch is negligible, yet a frisson of charge still sweeps over Minimus' plating. His cheeks warm with shame and arousal, and he jerks his hand back as if burned.

“Alright,” Megatron says, exasperated. “This is getting ridiculous. One of us is going to have to take the plunge, and it may as well be me.”

Minimus feels a curious kind of anxiety spring to life in his tank.

“I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, but — Minimus: we need to talk about our relationship.”

“Do we really?” Minimus asks.

“Yes, we do. Because I can see no logical reason why we continue to torture ourselves like this.”

Minimus gives him an incredulous look. “I would think the reason is obvious.”

“Whatever crimes you believe me to be responsible for,” Megatron says, “the guilt is not communicable via interface.”

“That is a gross oversimplification,” Minimus shoots back. “And it’s not a matter of  _belief_. Perhaps you don’t define them as ‘crimes’, but the suffering your actions have caused is undeniable — even if you choose to characterize that suffering as a ‘necessary struggle’.”

“And what bearing does that have on our situation, precisely?”

Minimus stares at Megatron for a few nanokilks, searching for some hint on his face that he’d said the words in jest. But neither of them are especially predisposed to making jokes, and all he finds there is determination.

Suddenly overwhelmed, Minimus abruptly retreats outside. 

* * *

Minimus is a creature of habit. He returns to his spot overlooking the endless expanse of the desert. The days are still short, and the sun is already setting. It paints the ocean of sand a deep red.

A few kliks pass before Megatron comes to him, and Minimus can’t decide if he’s grateful or annoyed. “I thought I might find you here,” Megatron says, sitting down beside him. 

Minimus says nothing.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Megatron continues. “I was frustrated, and I expressed myself poorly as a result. I would like another try at explaining, if you would oblige me.”

“...Very well,” Minimus says, softly.

“I didn't mean to imply that your feelings about my actions are irrelevant. I understand that, in your mind, I am a criminal, and it’s your duly appointed mission to prosecute me to the fullest extent of the law that you uphold. That an attachment to me could jeopardize your ability to carry out that duty.”

At this point, Minimus really shouldn’t be surprised by how insightful Megatron is. But he’s still caught off-guard.

“My point was not that such concerns are irrelevant. I have similar reservations. But...I think that, perhaps, we’ve passed that threshold already. I don’t believe that a greater degree of intimacy would significantly alter my feelings for you in any way, and I suspect that you’re in a similar position.” Minimus startles at the implications of that statement. Megatron isn’t done, though. “But more importantly, I don’t think our chances of escaping this awful place are high, even if we succeed in completing the array.” He puts a hand on Minimus’ shoulders. “Shouldn’t we at least eke out some measure of — happiness, before we die?”

Minimus barely restrains a shiver at the feel of that hand. “And what if we’re rescued, despite the odds?”

“Then...we will part ways, and deal with the consequences.” 

Megatron’s reasoning is sound. Minimus can find no holes in it. How much can he trust his own judgment, though, when the slightest touch of Megatron’s hand can set his entire body aflame?

But that also serves to confirm Megatron’s argument. And, indeed, when Minimus thinks of harming Megatron — the possibility of presiding over Megatron’s  _execution_  — he cannot deny the despair that wells up within his spark. Oh, he would do his duty if the time came; he would make Megatron face the justice he so richly deserved. But it would be  _agony_. 

In light of that, perhaps it would be better that they die here together. The thought is so wretchedly selfish that Minimus is disgusted with himself. He asks, “Would it not be more convenient to simply kill me?” 

There’s a pause, and Megatron’s fingers twitch minutely against Minimus’ plating. “I had a lover, before the war,” Megatron says, after several nanokilks have passed. “We parted on bad terms, and he joined the Autobots to spite me. He’s proven to be a nuisance ever since.” He sounds almost wistful. “I had the opportunity to kill him, once. He was beaten and helpless at my feet. But, at the crucial moment, I hesitated. And that hesitation cost me my victory.” He lets out an ex-vent that may or may not be a laugh. “I suppose I should be flattered that you think I have the stoicism required to kill  _you_ , Minimus.”

The significance of the confession isn’t lost on Minimus. Admitting to vulnerability, let alone  _fault_ , is rarely done in Decepticon circles. It demonstrates a frankly staggering level of trust on Megatron’s part. Especially when it’s clear that Megatron is almost as averse to discussing the matter of  _feelings_ as he himself is. 

He is, quite frankly, mortified on Megatron’s behalf. Not least because he can deduce the Autobot in question with ease, based on former occupation and temperament. Indeed, it’s so obvious that Megatron must have  _anticipated_ such a deduction. Minimus has often puzzled over the baffling matter of Impactor joining the Autobots.

“I’m almost tempted to suggest we interface just so we can avoid continuing this conversation,” Minimus mutters.

“Only almost?” Megatron asks, both the pitch of his voice and his hand dipping lower.

Primus, he wants he to give in so badly. “You’ve done such terrible things,” Minimus murmurs.

“Yes,” Megatron replies. Grimly, but without any regret.

Minimus knows, now, that Megatron genuinely sees his atrocities as necessary. Against organics and fellow Cybertronians alike. Minimus understands that they are undertaken in the pursuit of sincerely-held ideals, rather than the wanton desire to cause suffering for its own sake.

It provides him no solace.

“I find it difficult to reconcile,” Minimus admits. “You’re not what I imagined you to be.” 

“You no longer think I’m an ‘eloquent sadist’, hmm?”

“I don’t know  _what_ to think. I’ve no frame of reference with which to quantify any of this.” 

Megatron sighs. “I was wrong about you, as well. I thought you...insignificant. But I see now that you are in fact exceptional.”

Minimus resists the urge to fidget in an undignified manner. “I have no use for flattery.”

“It’s a good thing that I never engage in it, then.”

“Your ideology is predicated on the idea that mechanoid species are inherently superior — that we have the  _right_ to conquer as we please. What is that, if not flattery?”

“The truth,” Megatron insists. “My regard for the Cybertronian race — and my regard for  _you_ —is based on nothing but the truth.”

Minimus supposes, in the interest of fairness, that he ought to say  _something_ about this longing welling up within him. He presses past the squirming sensation in his fuel tank to say, “I could never quite wrap my processor around the romantic epics, you know. I appreciated their craftsmanship, but I always found them too far-fetched. Exaggerated for poetic effect. But...” He looks up at Megatron. At the answering longing in his gaze. “Now I think I finally understand them.”

He’s grateful, when Megatron lifts him up and kisses him, because the squirming is replaced by liquid heat. Megatron is ex-venting hard by the time he pulls back from the kiss, his cooling fans audible. “Open for me,” he says, his voice edged with static and something that might be desperation.

Minimus doesn’t even make the conscious decision to obey. His panel transforms away instantly. He hears Megatron’s spike pressurizing, and then Megatron is lowering him down until the tip of it is pressing against the rim of Minimus’ valve, teasing at the outer nodes. It’s far smaller than the last time, but still large enough that care will have to be taken. “Tell me you want this,” Megatron growls.

“I do,” Minimus says shakily.

Minimus is lowered still further, the tip stretching the entrance of his valve wide enough to burn. But he releases a gush of lubricant, allowing for Megatron’s spike to sink ever-so-slowly further inside, centimeter by centimeter, until the tip is nestled against Minimus’ ceiling node. The spike is too long to fit in completely, and Minimus’ legs are spread wide apart in order to accommodate the girth of Megatron’s frame, which means that Minimus has no leverage to move. Megatron must realize it, because he lays back, allowing Minimus to straddle him instead. 

Within nanokilks, the residual burn has already faded away into a delightful feeling of  _fullness_. Minimus uses his new-found leverage to grind his hips experimentally, and the resulting friction leaves him shuddering. He does it again, and this time Megatron lets out a low groan of approval.

Megatron allows Minimus to set the rhythm, only using the hands on Minimus’ hips to provide support. The size differential means that Minimus’ charge ramps up faster than Megatron’s, keeping him poised on the edge of overload. The charge flows back into Megatron before he can ever crest the wave of pleasure, though. It’s overwhelming in a way that Minimus could’ve never anticipated.

Perhaps even more disconcerting is what sees when he looks down at Megatron’s face. The undisguised, helpless affection in Megatron’s optics. There’s an answering swell of warmth in Minimus’ spark, just as intense as the charge that’s coursing through his body. He wants, very suddenly, to kiss Megatron. But, from this position, Minimus’ stature prevents him from reaching Megatron’s mouth. 

Megatron must feel the impulse too, because he steadies Minimus with his hands and shifts back into a sitting position. His spike remains deep inside Minimus the whole time, their connection unbroken. Minimus wraps his legs around Megatron’s waist as best he can. And then Megatron tilts Minimus back, curling his own body forward to claim Minimus’ mouth in a searing kiss.

Minimus can’t help but moan, spark pulsing with delight, even as the rhythm stutters. This is perhaps what prompts Megatron to pull back, his gaze fixed on Minimus’ face, and effortlessly move Minimus up and down his spike. The slow, steady drag against the straining walls of Minimus’ valve results in a surge of charge that leaves Minimus’ optics sparking, a helpless keen slipping out of his vocalizer. It should be humiliating, but all Minimus feels is heady pleasure. An overpowering  _fondness_.

“You’re  _exquisite_ ,” Megatron rumbles, his engine revving.

“F-flattery,” Minimus just barely manages. 

“Truth.” The word is punctuated by a particularly powerful jerk of Megatron’s arms, pushing the head of his spike hard against Minimus’ the top of Minimus’ valve. He repeats the action, and this time it sends them both of them hurtling over the edge.

Minimus hadn’t known it was possible to feel this good. For several kliks, he’s aware of nothing but the ecstasy coursing through his frame. And it’s almost a relief when it finally subsides, replaced with a strut-deep relaxation.

He’s vaguely aware of Megatron’s spike depressurizing, of slumping forward against Megatron’s chest, and of his valve cover sliding shut to prevent the transfluid from escaping. It’s already being pumped up into his tank; he can tell, because the low-level hunger that’s plagued him since the rationing began is fading away. He checks his fuel gauge, which informs him that his fuel levels are now at 40% and rising.

Megatron stands up, taking Minimus up with him, and walks back inside the ship. He moves through the bridge, into the habsuite, laying Minimus down on one the recharge slabs. 

“I’m going to fuel,” Megatron murmurs. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Drink mine, as well,” Minimus murmurs through the haze of contented exhaustion. “I’m at 57%.”

Megatron makes a sound of assent. Minimus listens to his heavy foot-falls as he leaves.

Minimus dozes, not quite falling into recharge. He’s only semi-conscious when Megatron returns, laying down beside him and pulling him up to lay on Megatron’s chest.

Minimus presses a sleepy kiss into plating beneath him. Megatron’s engine gives an answering rumble, and Megatron’s arms encircle him in a warm embrace.

He knows for certain, then, that he’s no longer alone.


End file.
